“One of the pages in her journal has a bunch of numbers I have been trying to decipher, and the first set of numbers is one, three, one, eight, nine, and two,” I tell them. “January third, eighteen ninety-two. The year Tolkien is born. Under that is nineteen thirty-seven, the year The Hobbit was first published.”
“Still not following, lass,” Liam admits. “Why the book?”
“We used to write coded messages to one another using the book as the decryption key.” Jesus, I can’t believe I didn’t put this together sooner. “Beneath those numbers is a string of numbers that correspond to the page number, paragraph, and word in The Hobbit.”
Seamus shrugs. “So we go pick up a cheaper copy at Barnes and Noble.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” I stress. “The page numbers won’t be the same, and the message won’t be right.”
“You think the coded message is your sister telling you where the books are?” Liam asks dubiously.
“I know it is.”
“All right then, lass.” He smiles. “Let’s go buy an enormously expensive book.”
thirty-eight
The auctioneer’s voice sharpens, cutting cleanly through the room as the assistants wheel the glass case fully into view. The book sits inside like a relic—spotlights glinting off the worn leather, the gold lettering dulled by time and too many hands that never deserved to touch it.
My stomach knots.
I recognize the nick on the spine instantly. The faint crease in the lower corner of the cover where Libby bent it, swearing she hadn’t. My pulse thunders in my ears as if my body knows before my mind finishes catching up.
That’s it.
That’shers.
The bidding starts fast. Too fast. Twelve thousand becomes fourteen, then sixteen, then twenty before I can even draw a steady breath. The numbers bounce effortlessly from polished mouths, each increase a casual flex of wealth that makes my skin crawl.
“This is sick,” I mutter, my fingers curling into the fabric of my dress. “They’re parading her life like it’s a trinket.”
Seamus shifts closer to me, his jaw tightening. “How high do you think it’ll go?”
“High,” I answer grimly. “Collectors don’t miss opportunities like this.”
Liam studies the crowd, his expression unreadable now—calculating. The way it gets when he’s weighing risk against reward, sentiment against strategy. I can practically see the numbers moving behind his eyes.
Twenty-five.
Thirty.
My chest tightens with every raise, panic licking up my spine. If we lose this—if someone else walks out of here with it—Libby’s message disappears into a private vault, sealed away forever. Elias’s secrets stay buried. His benefactor stays protected.
“Liam,” I say quietly, urgency bleeding into my voice. “If we don’t get that book tonight, we may never get it.”
He doesn’t look at me right away. Instead, he lifts his paddle with calm precision.
“Thirty-five thousand.”
A murmur ripples through the room.
Seamus lets out a low whistle. “That got their attention.”
Sure enough, a man across the room smirks and counters immediately. Forty.
My heart drops.
Liam doesn’t hesitate.
